Carpe Diem: Love, Resistance to Authority, and the Necessity of Choice in Andrew Marvell and Elizabeth Cary
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humanities Article Carpe Diem: Love, Resistance to Authority, and the Necessity of Choice in Andrew Marvell and Elizabeth Cary Michael Bryson ID Department of English, California State University, Northridge, Northridge, CA 91330, USA; [email protected] Received: 13 April 2018; Accepted: 11 June 2018; Published: 14 June 2018 Abstract: The theme of love as resistance to authority is the centerpiece of a two-millennia-long tradition in Western poetry known as carpe diem (a phrase credited to the Latin poet Horace). This essay begins by analyzing one of the most famous later examples of carpe diem in English poetry (Andrew Marvell’s 1681 “To His Coy Mistress”), emphasizing the carpe diem ethos’ potential to illustrate both the consequences and the necessity of individual erotic choice—especially female choice—in defiance of authority. It then uses carpe diem’s anti-authoritarian perspective to understand the contrast between the ambivalence of Mariam—torn between a tepid disobedience and regretful loyalty to her husband Herod—and the wholly defiant choices of Salome in Elizabeth Cary’s earlier drama, The Tragedy of Mariam from 1613. Keywords: love; choice; carpe diem; resistance; authority; poetry 1. Introduction Carpe diem poetry, a tradition dating back to the Augustan era in Rome, presents a worldview that seems filled with a sense of the fragility and shortness of life; but at its essence, it is concerned with individual choice in a world that often attempts to circumscribe, or even eliminate, the possibility of such choice. It takes its name from a phrase by the “Latin poet Horace, who in Ode, I. xi, tells his mistress that [...] life is short, so they must ‘enjoy the day,’ for they do not know if there will be a tomorrow” (Glancy 2002, p. 43). Horace lives and works in an increasingly authoritarian Rome in which the passing of such laws as the Lex Iulia de Maritandis Ordinibus and the Lex Iulia de Adulteriis Coercendis (of 18 and 17 BCE) represented an ongoing attempt to use the power of government to “reform Roman private morality.”1 In such an environment, Horace’s line, “carpe diem quam minimum credula postero” (Horace 1998, p. 39)—“Seize the day, trusting as little in the next as possible”2—has a political resonance, as it tells Leuconoe, and all who have followed since, to live now, and love now, despite the demands of authority, because each second of scruple, doubt, and delay brings men and women closer to a death that is non-negotiable, non-delayable, and everlasting. The carpe diem ethos informs works as diverse as the fourth-century (CE) Latin poetry of Ausonius,3 to the troubadour poems of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, to the plays of Shakespeare and the poetry of John Donne and Robert Herrick. It appears, perhaps most powerfully and famously in Andrew Marvell’s 1681 1 These laws proscribed class intermarriage, and fornication/adultery respectively (Davis 1999, p. 435). 2 All translations in this essay are my own. 3 The final two lines of “Ad Uxorem” beautifully capture the idea of living for now: “nos ignoremus quid sit matura senectus: /scire aevi meritum, non numerare decet” [let us be ignorant of maturity and age, /and know Time’s worth, not count its years]. “Ad Uxorem”, Epigram 20. (Ausonius 2001, p. 45) Humanities 2018, 7, 61; doi:10.3390/h7020061 www.mdpi.com/journal/humanities Humanities 2018, 7, 61 2 of 17 poem, “To His Coy Mistress,”4 where the idea of death becomes life’s and love’s greatest ally in the battle against the demands of authority, convention, and law. No less powerfully, if less famously, carpe diem plays a central role in Elizabeth Cary’s 1613 drama, The Tragedy of Mariam, in the context of a radical assertion of female freedom that insists on the necessity of choice in love and desire as resistance to authority. Reading each work in relation to the other, even through the other, can give us very different perspectives than we might otherwise have.5 Despite its later composition, Marvell’s invocation of the long-established ideas of carpe diem poetry can show us something of the temporal urgency Salome faces in her decision to leave her husband for another man, and can further illustrate the trap Mariam finds herself in, unable to choose her own desires. Cary’s earlier dramatization of the choices both made and not made by her characters can help us envision the less playful side, even the life-and-death gravity, of the choice posed to the “Coy Mistress” of Marvell’s poem. Though Cary could not have read “To His Coy Mistress,” and Marvell was likely not consulting the text of The Tragedy of Mariam when writing his poem, each work stands—as does the carpe diem ethos itself—in defiance, but also in hope, insisting together, across the years that separate them from each other, and from us, that readers face the necessity of choice. 2. A Fine and Private Place: Andrew Marvell and His Coy Mistress Perhaps after Robert Herrick’s “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” the single line of carpe diem poetry most recognizable to English language readers is “If we had but world enough and time.” It is a line, like “To be or not to be, that is the question,” or “Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,” that elicits a shock of recognition, each line an example of that “work of genius” Emerson describes, in which “we recognize our own rejected thoughts” coming back to us “with a certain alienated majesty” (Emerson 2002, p. 175). We know, all of us at some level, that we have neither world enough nor time, despite the countless tasks with which we busy ourselves, the deadlines at work, the striving for success, the pursuits of love or knowledge (for academics, that latest paper that must be written), all of the hundreds and thousands of little ways we distract ourselves from the onrush of our mortality. Still, we know, and a line like that which opens Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress” brings that knowledge right up close, forcing us to pay attention. We all have our coynesses, our defensive refusals to deal with the reality of the absurd and ultimately fatal disease from which all of us suffer; we wish to think (or more precisely “not-think”) that we have, if not endless tomorrows, at least so many as allow us to indulge in the time-wasting and death-hastening scruples of our island and tribe and time6, throwing off until tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow the choices necessary to live as fully as possible in worlds that will, if we let them, lead us like fools to dusty death, worlds that would deny us the chance ever to discover who we really were, and who we might have become. This perhaps most powerful of all the English carpe diem poems, reminds its readers that it is a kind of crime to be quite so coy in the face of the fine and private place to which we are all bound. Marvell himself was a complicated man, one whom Nigel Smith has recently described as “a poet who denied [...] poetic egotism by a form of studied imitation” through which, as in the present poem, he often exceeded his models (Smith 2010, p. 9). On the other hand, Marvell was also possessed of 4 Published in 1681, though written perhaps as early as 1652 (Smith 2010, p. 37). 5 Though some readers might find it odd to read a literary work through the perspective of a later literary work, fewer seem to object to reading a literary work through the perspective of a later theoretical text. In neither case is the direct influence of the later text on the earlier one being argued for, nor could it be. In both cases, what is crucial is the perspective the pairing gives the reader in his or her encounter with each text. 6 We often have an unfortunate tendency toward “presentism,” the assumption that the ways of our now are always superior to the ways of any given then. But as Robert Musil reminds us, our nows and thens are merely accidents: “die Gegenwart sieht stolz auf die Vergangenheit herab, und wenn die Vergangenheit zufällig später gekommen wäre, so würde sie stolz auf die Gegenwart herabsehen” (Musil 1957, p. 469) [the Present looks proudly down upon the Past, and if the Past had chanced to come later, it would look proudly down upon the Present]. Humanities 2018, 7, 61 3 of 17 “a very hot temper” and seems to have been a man “who did not suffer fools gladly [...] and reacted with excessive violence or agitation when frustrated. Contemporaries, albeit hostile critics, saw a man with a sneer. He enjoyed snide laughter at those who deserved to be treated with contempt” (Smith 2010, p. 9). Yet Marvell was also “the most effective political and religious satirist of his day, one of the greatest lyrical and political poets in the English language, and in his time, one of the most advanced thinkers in respect of toleration and free thinking” (Smith 2010, p. 11), and this in an especially authoritarian and unstable mid-seventeenth century in England. The poet, the politician, the man, was (and is) not easy to pin down, not easy to pack tidily away onto one’s ideological shelves. As complicated as the man could be, his poetry is perhaps even more complicated, often at odds with itself, moving from voice to contradictory voice with the ease of an observer whose point of view allows him to see all sides of a question at once—as can be seen, for instance, in the Mower poems, which Linda Anderson has described in terms of their split point of view: all four poems [present] a single individual who defines himself in a special relationship with nature while at the same time hinting that the reader should question that definition.